


Stilted Coincidence

by Vyxen



Series: Bright Magic [1]
Category: Bright (2017)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, I say slow burn but they're not in a relationship in this particular fic, Kandomere isn't impressed, Kandomere's an asshole but at least he's hot, Love/Hate, Reader has Fae Lineage, Reader is a detective, Sarcasm, Sexual Tension, Tags Are Hard, You end up in situations you shouldn't be in, hell i try my best, idk man i'm writing as i go shit's scary, reader tries her best, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 22:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyxen/pseuds/Vyxen
Summary: "Do you make it a habit to get into these sort of situations, officer?"Even though he's standing right in front of you, you wouldn't have had to look to figure out what expression he was wearing. The corners of his mouth are pulled down at the edges, his brows are low, and his eyes - sharp as they are - feel like they're drilling into your own whenever your gazes meet. Your lip twitches."Detective, sir."The side of his mouth quirks upwards, and his eyes narrow. The sudden change in his face has your teeth gritting even as your thighs clench together under the sheets of the hospital bed. Your teeth are being ground against each other, you see, because you've told him - every time you meet, without fail - that you're a detective. He knows, he remembers it, corrects himself only once, and then continues to call you officer anyway. He does it to belittle you. He does it to piss you off.That stupid, stupid smirk is so infuriatingly sexy, but God if he isn't the biggest asshole you've ever had the chance of meeting.





	Stilted Coincidence

"Do you make it a habit to get into these sort of situations, officer?"

Even though he's standing right in front of you, you wouldn't have had to look to figure out what expression he was wearing. The corners of his mouth are pulled down at the edges, his brows are low, and his eyes - sharp as they are - feel like they're drilling into your own whenever your gazes meet. Your lip twitches.

"Detective, sir."

The side of his mouth twitches upwards, and his eyes narrow. The sudden change in his face has your teeth gritting even as your thighs clench together under the sheets of the hospital bed. Your teeth are being ground against each other, you see, because you've told him - every time you meet, without fail - that you're a detective. He knows, he remembers it, corrects himself only once, and then continues to call you officer anyway. He does it to belittle you. He does it to piss you off.

That stupid, stupid smirk is so _infuriatingly sexy_ , but _God_ if he isn't the biggest asshole you've _ever_ had the chance of meeting.

"Well then," he begins again, correction in mind, "do you make a habit of getting into these sorts of situations,  _detective?_ _"_ He's striding closer, then, with that quiet, Elven grace, and you get a whiff of his cologne; something rich and sweet, but far from overpowering. He's like a pomegranate in that way, sweet-smelling and delicious and meant to trap you in Hades-or-Tartarus-or-whatever it is with the Greek God of the underworld. The comparison isn't even that far-fetched; except instead of being tortured for your misdeeds, you're being tortured for doing your job and trying to fix whatever messes the magic world of whatever-the-fuck drops into your hands for God-knows- _what_ reasons.  
You're pulled from your thoughts when he sits at the edge of the hospital cot opposite you, arms crossed over his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you, tilting his head so that smooth silver-blue hair brushes delicately against the curve of his shoulder, and you realise he's waiting for you to answer his question. A small smirk curves your lips, because  _damn him, he can wait,_ and his eyes narrow again in response, mouth returning back to that characteristic half-scowl-half-frown of his.

"No, sir," you begin, and you can tell he's  _pleased_ by the way you use the word, just  _tickled pink_ by his cocksure superiority over you. "I don't make a habit of getting into situations that could cost me my life. All I do is my job." Your eyes flit from Kandomere, to Agent Montehugh, to the trained team in black that the duo came with, and your tongue is rolling over your teeth as you force yourself to speak up. You can hear the rustling of fabric that means the blue-haired elf is shifting where he sits, but you don't turn to look at him again, lest you get distracted or lose your nerve. "I came in to investigate a murder because it was assumed someone took a little too much enjoyment using fire and gasoline. I didn't exactly  _plan_ on being attacked by a rogue bright who had their hands on a wand." You breathe in sharply, and out again, trying to stretch your lungs and shoulders in a way that will believe the tension building up in your body. "It's only been a few months since we got the last one for you. How was I supposed to know they'd somehow smuggled  _another_ wand into the area?"

The neighbouring cot creeks as Kandomere gets to his feet. This time you  _do_ look up at him; the long, deliberate strides he takes to stand at the foot of the cot you're lying on are steady, slow, predatory... His arms fall to his sides, but his fingertips trace over the metal bed frame. Through all of it, however, his eyes have remained on you. Your hands clench around the blankets in reaction, goosebumps prickling along the bare skin of your arms, and sharp-eyed as he is, he doesn't miss it. Still, the owlish tilt of his head and his sudden serious demeanour have you stilling all over again.  
"Am I to believe," he murmurs lowly, and it's only the close distance that allows his low timbre to ring perfectly clear in your ears, "that you hadn't planned conveniently being involved with both of the wands that have passed through your station's district?"

It happens in a second.

The implication, the sheer  _nerve_ that he has to doubt you has lava rushing through your veins, and you're lurching forwards from your seated position, upper lip curling into an enraged snarl. Montehugh (whether he's Kandomere's subordinate or his partner, you don't know) startles before he's jerking forward, too, hand rising to rest over the gun he has on his person, and the closest men in black turn to face you, weapons at the ready. Kandomere, however, is unmoved and unaffected, staring straight into your eyes - unafraid of the bloody murder they promise - and straightening his back. All the while, his fingers still tap silent rhythms on the frame of your cot.  
The pain catches up with you half a second later, and you make a soft, weak noise, curling in on yourself subconsciously in an effort to protect yourself. You're finally,  _painfully_ reminded of the magic burns that run from the side of your right breast down to the middle of your thigh, curling around your torso like vines. As if to mock you, the burns will turn into white scars with beautiful pattering, all lilting runes and swirls and delicate flowering blooms against your skin, but for now it's red raw and  _aches_ like someone's jammed a hot poker into your side,  _all over_ your side. Your breath is loud, heaving, and you're wilting into the pillows supporting your back, turning your face away so you don't have to look anyone in the face through the curtain of your hair. Shame, strong enough to sit in your throat like an ice cold fist has you swallowing. Montehugh and the team in black relax. Kandomere keeps watching.  
"Don't you dare," you're whispering, knowing all too well that Kandomere can hear, "don't you fucking  _dare_ accuse me of that shit." You look up again, and though your voice is trembling and your arms are wrapped around your bandage-clad body in your embarrassing need for comfort, you finally look the blue-haired special agent directly in the eye. "You think I  _wanted_ to be here again? You think I  _wanted_ to deal with wands and magic and the Inferni and  _cults,_ after last time? After what I lost?" The blanket falls and pools at your lap, but you pay it no mind; the medical staff did a good job of keeping you decently covered in the white wrappings, considering how much of your body is covered in the healing red marks. "I'm not a criminal, and I sure as Hell don't want to end up as the scapegoat when you twist your little stories around-" your dominant hand lifts to gesture as you speak, haphazardly twisting your fingers in a circle, "-and cover everything up again." A heartbeat of a moment, and then you're sighing, the fire in your eyes dimming into something that only simmers. "I've helped get you and your department two wands.  _Two._ What more do you need from me?"

Kandomere's broad shoulders lift in what your sure is a silent sigh on his part, but he doesn't respond right away. Instead, his gaze falls downwards to your hips, before trailing up the angles of your body revealed to him by the tightness of your bandages, the line of your collarbones, and finally, the tiny uncovered strands of your magic burn that curl over your shoulder and up your neck. When you make eye contact again, the icy blue of his irises feel more like blue flames instead. You swallow thickly, and lick your lips, and the elf's eyes follow every minute shift of the motion. God, you  _hate_ him, but even you can't help the way your pulse speeds up under a look with such promise.

You cross one leg over the other under the blankets.

He notices. Of course he does.

"I was so sure Ward and Jakoby were  _very_ involved in the first wand acquisition," he murmurs like he hasn't just looked at you like he wants to sink his teeth into you, "and I believe they would've been capable enough to collect that wand on their own."

You make a noise of dissent. "I said I  _helped,_ sir."

There's that form of address again, and coupled with the second time he rakes his eyes over your body, your imagination runs away from you.  _Maybe he likes to be called Sir in other scenarios, too._

You mentally shake yourself.  _Focus, detective, focus!_

He makes a small humming sound in the back of his throat; it's mild, but it's a sound of acknowledgement, and that's good enough for you.

"What happened at the scene of the murder?"

There's a moment where you're disoriented and lost in how to respond, before your thoughts click into place and you straighten. You force yourself to stay that way, even when you want to slump in relief because you aren't suspicious and you aren't to be someone to blame for the whole scenario. "I was investigating the murder," you begin, slowly, piecing together another story in your mind, "when the murderer returned with a weapon and killed the other officers and investigators on the scene. I spared for a reason currently unknown; however, the man is believed to be a cultist, as he burned specific patterns onto my body." You take a deep, shuddering breath at the memory, swallowing the shivers and the sudden urge to scream and lurch away from Kandomere's heavy stare. "The cultist was caught not too far away from the building the murders were committed in, and I was brought here to recover. That's all." Kandomere gives you a single, approving nod, and then he's twisting on his heel to walk away. Montehugh moves to follow with much less grace, his footsteps heavy in comparison. You slump into your pillows in relief.  
  
"Thank you for your hard work," you hear Kandomere call over his shoulder. "Hopefully I don't have to see you in this situation again, but until next time, officer."

Your hands fist in the sheets again, your jaw clenches so hard your teeth creak, and the last notes of the blue-haired elf's amusement are ricocheting inside your head. Your eyes snap open to catch him sending you a smirk over his shoulder.

Yeah; Kandomere is definitely the  _biggest_ asshole you've  _ever met._


End file.
